


A Bargain

by GlitterIsTheWorst



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, F/F, Fluff, No Spoilers, Witch AU, aka im sad and write things to distract myself, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 17:18:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10598577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterIsTheWorst/pseuds/GlitterIsTheWorst
Summary: “What brings you here, Kanaya Maryam?” She fills a tall glass with the lemonade and you watch it frost up. She sounds genuinely interested, a little surprised even. “One would think that you have everything one can dream of. Fame, wealth…” She pauses to watch you closely. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her blink. “...Relative immortality, as of late.”She offers you the glass. You don’t question how she knows your name or any of those things, it’s not wise. Witches just know things.





	

**Author's Note:**

> uh i have no excuse for this, except loneliness and getting into homestuck. enjoy.  
> EDIT 21/07 look at the amazing fanart fanzanna made!! i owe you my soul: http://fanzanna.tumblr.com/post/176063302057/come-on-you-havent-walked-all-the-way-here-to

The crows have been circling you for days. You’ve tried to talking to them, hoping to get them to come down and show you the way, or to tell you stories of lands far ahead of you, like they used to when you were a little girl. But now, no such luck. You can only hear them screeching high above your head

 _dead dead dead_  
_you’re a dead woman walking_  
_your flesh is rotting_  
_dead dead dead_  
_stop and feed your brothers_  
_don’t fight nature_  
_deaddeaddeaddead_

You don’t listen and you don’t stop. They don’t try flying down and you’re glad. You wouldn’t want to hurt an innocent creature. You’re weary of your travel. There’s nothing but sand and rocks for miles, as far as your eyes can reach. The soil is as parched as it was days before, the sun as unforgiving and the sky as bare. Your feet are bleeding, you’re sure of it - your hands are too. You lick the moisture off your thumb, briefly wincing at the salty, coppery taste. God, you want to stop. But as soon as you do, the crows - your earliest friends and your last mourners, will come pecking and tearing, each for their own, taking you piece by piece. They think you’re a revolting sin against nature.

And perhaps you are, you think. But you’re not going to give up just yet. You’ve been walking for months. It’s bound to be somewhere here. You slow down, the rhythm of your walking stick stuttering before accommodating to the new pace. You reach into your pocket with your free hand, looking at the scrawled runes that mean nothing to you. You swallow, your dry throat contracting. Your voice is coarse, roughened by sand and months of unuse, coming from your lungs more than anything. The syllables make no sense, but you try to keep the rhythm as you walk slowly, curving your path southwest.

Something happens. You’re not sure how, and you’re not sure whether it on your account, but something happens. The crows don’t stop screeching, but it seems more distant. The air changes, no longer as dry and tasteless. There’s a faint breeze, and the ground is mellower against the worn-through soles of your shoes. You’re almost sure that there’s something behind you, right there over your left shoulder, or rather maybe someone - you can feel the breath on your neck, the warmth of a human being radiating in a completely different way that the sun. You want to turn around, to protect yourself, to at least shield your neck. But you do none of it, simply continuing on your way, the rhythm of your cane accompanied by the melody of your desperate voice.

You’re almost at the point where you began, the faint traces you’ve been leaving in the sand visible. You feel tired, so tired, like your feet are stuck in mud. But you’re so close, you’re not gonna give up just yet. One last try won’t kill you - and even if it does, it won’t matter. There’s nothing else to support life in the desert, anyways. The moment you finish the incantation, your foot meets the beginning of the gentle curve.

A flash of the sun makes your head spin, and before you can regain your balance, a strong gust of wind steals your notes away. The breathing is gone. There’s nothing there. Just you, the cruel sun and the crows circling above your head lower and lower. You watch the papers fly away. You don’t try chasing them. Instead, you fall to your knees, the dull thump of earth going for miles. You close your eyes. So that was it. Your last hope gone like that. The witch was nothing but a fable and a hallucination of weary traveller’s eyes. You’d cry if there was any water left in your body. You look up to the sky, the hot white abyss above you. It seems impossible that there’s a heaven out there. The first crow lands a foot or two away from you, cocking its head curiously. It doesn’t caw, doesn’t screech. It just stares, watches you cautiously. You stare back from heavy lidded eyes, the heaving of your chest the only movement in the overwhelming stillness of the world, your dry breath the only movement.

“I don’t think it’s very comfortable out there. Wouldn’t you prefer to come in for some tea?”

You don’t turn around at the woman’s voice. You know she’s not there. It’s just your mind playing tricks on you. It’s just the sound of your own breath mixed with the sand and dust, nothing but a trick of-

“Come on, you haven’t walked all the way here to die on me, did you?”

There’s a playful note in her voice, this time. You’re wondering if that’s your subconsciousness taunting you morbidly. Something obscures the sun for a brief moment, or maybe that’s just you passing out. But no.  
Now, the witch is standing before you. She’s not tall, a head or two taller than you while you’re kneeling, with skin so painfully white you’re wondering if you really got to the right person. The sun hides behind her head, illuminating her white hair golden, like a halo. She looks like a Greek goddess, but her lips are dark and her eyes are obscured by the shadows, only a faint purple iris visible. She reaches out, her fingers long and sleek. A crow flies down and settles on her shoulder. No, you made a mistake. She’s not a goddess, she’s death, summoned from the depths of Hades to take you to that land of shadows and sorrow. You take her hand, anyways. She smiles just a bit, and pulls you up from your knees. She doesn’t let go of your hand when she leds you somewhere, but she strokes the beak of the crow with her index finger.

“Crows were always my brother’s thing.” There’s something in her voice - loneliness? Sadness? No, you realise - it's nostalgia. Few more of the birds flock down to the two of you, settling on her arms and head. She doesn’t seem to be bothered by it. You look ahead and stay silent.

There’s a small cottage where the middle of the ring would be, with a dense garden. Your eyes widen in disbelief. It’s impossible that it’s a mirage - you can smell the heavy, sweet scent of ripe peaches on the trees and the leaves on the orange trees are too green to be just a fata morgana. There seems to be a breeze coming from the middle of that strange oasis, carrying just the faint memory of a zesty citrus scent. The closer you get, the more humid the air becomes. You drink it, feeling yourself slowly coming back to life.

“You must be hungry.” She leads you through the garden, paying no mind to the sea of blooming flowers. More of the birds come down, sitting on the twisted branches of the peach trees, but they don’t dare to pick onto the fruit. She reaches up and hands you a ripe peach, with delicate skin and droplets of dew. You take it, though you know it won’t satisfy your hunger. It’s overwhelmingly sweet, and it’s… actually working. It’s been so long since you’ve eaten anything that you enjoy and actually felt your hunger subside.The juice is flowing down your arm and you must look like a such a slob, but you don’t care. God, that’s so good. You hear the witch chuckle. She’s looking at you with fondness in her violet eyes, and you slow down. She tugs you onwards, towards the house.

It looks different than it did from far away, you’re sure of that, but you don’t bring it up. She smiles at you, and you wonder if she can read your thoughts. As if to confirm it, she winks, but it might also be because your eyes widen and your mouth falls agape at the amulets and trinkets decorating the doorway. Strings of buttons, bells and beads, braided or let loose, are obscuring the interior of the house like curtains. They make a quiet whisper when you follow the witch inside. The birds seem to have dissolved into air.

It’s cooler there, and much darker, the light falling through the large stained glass windows like amber and sapphire. The strangely still air smells of incense and pine, but it’s clear and fills your lungs easily. The witch beckons you to sit on the low sofa, and leaves you be, wandering off to the adjoined room. You look around, seeing more now that your eyes have accommodated to the dimness. There’s mirrors on the walls, reflecting the reality from other worlds, but you never get a glimpse of yours. You can see maps, too, but you can’t recognise any of the names.

She comes back with lemonade and lemon tart, and puts them on the low cherrywood table. There are a few books scattered around it, but none in a language you’re familiar with. You feel the seat dip as she sits besides you. She’s still smiling when you look up, her eyes still entrancing and you wonder briefly how it would be to fall in love.

“What brings you here, Kanaya Maryam?” She fills a tall glass with the lemonade and you watch it frost up. She sounds genuinely interested, a little surprised even. “One would think that you have everything one can dream of. Fame, wealth…” She pauses to watch you closely. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her blink. “...Relative immortality, as of late.”

She offers you the glass. You don’t question how she knows your name or any of those things, it’s not wise. Witches just know things. You suspect that she knows why you’re here, yet again, you don’t question her. You gulp, and take the drink with your sticky hands, leaving fingerprints in the frost.

“I would like it if you could undo it.” You take a sip of the lemonade. It’s exactly how you like it: zesty but not sour, sweet but not sugary. And, what’s even stranger, it quenches your thirst. “It was not of my choice, and I cannot bear to live this way.”

She leans back, no longer smiling, but still kind. You wonder how old she might be. There’s been stories of the desert witch for centuries, if not millenias, but she looks not a day past twenty, with her laughing eyes and dark make-up. She looks nothing like the stories tell of her: grim and ugly, living in a cave in a communion with the hyenas, driving a hard bargain of one’s soul per a favour.

“If I undo it, you will die.”

You nod, and your hands reach to your stomach instinctively, where once was a gaping hole. You’ve made your peace with it long ago. Your killer was caught, and you made sure he paid the price. Now there’s nothing else to do, besides to give yourself the same treatment. You have to be fair.

“Why would you want me to do that?”

You wonder what answer will satisfy her. There’s a million and two reasons why. You’re dead. You shouldn’t be walking. Nothing tastes good anymore, nothing but… You shudder. Blood. You hate ripping their throats open, gulping down the red stream pulsing with the slowing heartbeat, then forcing yourself to lick the remains of the corpse. There’s nothing glorious about it, nothing novel-worthy or romantic. You hate that fruit and dairy taste rotten, sugar turns bitter and salt burns your tongue. You hate the sickly white shade of your skin, how it doesn’t even remind you of that beautiful burnt sienna colour it used to be. You hate the glowing yellow eyes, obscuring the once-hazel irises, you hate your claws and your fangs. You could say it all. You could pour your heart out, cry about how you hate how you cannot tell what of the murderer you’ve become this… this disease brought on and what was always there, right under your skin, just waiting for a trigger. You could tell her about how your friends have died, one by one, because they were too kind and you were too hungry. You could tell her about how your enemies have died, one by one, because they were too weak and you were too furious. You could tell her how your life slowly transferred into not-death. But you don’t. Instead, you opt for a short:

“Because I’m a monster. And all monsters deserve to die."

She looks into your eyes, and you’re scared for a while that you’ve said something very, very wrong, and that this kind woman will transform into that hunchbacked hag who likes her human flesh raw. But no, she just smiles a sad smile, and takes a piece of the lemon tart for herself. She stays silent for a while, and you look around the room nervously. There’s weapons stacked in the corner, some of them rusty, some of them new, some of them so strange they could only be from the future. There’s a basket filled with knitting supplies and a handful of unfinished… scarves? You cannot fathom why would anyone use them in the middle of the desert, but you don’t comment on it. Along the opposite wall, there’s a long bookcase made out of the same cherrywood. There’s tonnes of paperbacks and some glossy bestsellers, but no spellbooks or thick, leather-bound tomes.

“Kanaya, do you really believe that?”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at her. You shouldn’t have come here. You should’ve just asked one of the hunters in the city to off you. Damnit, why were you so hell-bent on dying as a human? It’s not as if regaining your humanity would absolve you from what has already passed.

“I see.” The witch’s voice is still calm, but you can tell she’s struggling to keep it so. “Well, I’m going to offer you a deal. A choice. It’s up to you if you accept it, but know that I am only allowed to make one offer to one being. If you decline, there’s no back-up option. All this-” She moves her hand around, clearly meaning the house, but perhaps herself, too. “-will disappear like it never was here, and you’ll never find me again. Those are the terms. Do you wish to hear the offer? It might not be what you want, but I’m sure it’s what you need. I’m not omnipotent, however, so you might see it unfit to your situation.”

You nod. You hear her shift, and take in a breath. When she speaks again, her tone has changed. It’s heavier, with some sort of accent you don’t recognise.

“My offer to you, Kanaya Maryam, is that you stay with me. This little patch of parched desert is the only place I can keep you relatively human and relatively alive. The fruit and vegetables growing here will sustain your bloodthirst as long as they are consumed within a mile of the centre of the ring. If I see you fit for my apprentice, I will teach you the inner workings of the art. If not, I will simply offer you my friendship. In return, you won’t seek absolution in death, keep me company and help out with whatever chores I ask of you. You are free to leave whenever you want, but consider that I am bound to this ring, and cannot subside your hunger from outside of it.”

You blink. That wasn’t what you expected. The seeming selflessness of the deal strikes you as odd and you hesitate. You expected a bargain for your soul, however damned it might be, or maybe the heart of your first lover, still beating on a silver plate. You’ve heard of other strange bargains. One’s sense of taste for a victory in battle, or the happiest memory for wealth. Hell, even the telltale firstborn son in exchange for the crown. Yet, before you can start properly second-guessing it, you sigh and go for it.

“I believe we have a deal.”

You feel something wash over you - something as light as the sea breeze, carrying a distinct scent of sandalwood. You face the witch. She’s smiling, but not maliciously, no. She’s still the same kind woman as she was before. She cuts another piece of the lemon tart and passes it to you.

“I believe we have. Now, Kanaya Maryam, tell me more about yourself. We need to start taking this friendship seriously, because we have an eternity to look forward to.”

***

You don’t know how long you’ve been here, but you don’t mind. It’s just one of the things specific to her house. You suspect it’s not been a year yet, but it’s probably nearing that. It’s just another morning, and you can see a dense forest outside the stained glass window of your bedroom. It changes every now and then, and you’re not sure if it’s Rose’s doing or just her prison’s nature. Just like every morning, you’re up before here, if the dead silence behind the adjoining wall is anything to go by. You walk downstairs, to the kitchen, and set the tin kettle over the stove. As you wait for the water to boil, still in your nightgown, you sit in the rocking chair, deep in your thoughts.

You’ve learnt a lot about the witch - Rose. You feel a little silly about your impression of her upon your first meeting. What were you doing thinking that she was a goddess? While very talented in the craft, she is strangely human, even if a little strange. You’ve watched people come and go, and while she’s always asked of you to keep out of her work, you still notice the vast differences between her… customers. You’re entirely sure that the house moves through not only space, but time, too. It would explain all the strange, mismatched furniture and the tommes in languages both dead and yet-to-exist. You once asked her from which time she originally was, but she merely smiled nostalgically and told you quizzically that even though you’re much younger than her, you’re technically older. She doesn’t like talking all that much about herself, either, so most of the things you’ve picked up on were simply on the account of your observation skills.

You notice that she knits a lot, and now it makes more sense, seeing as the house was in the freezing tundra not so long ago. You notice that she doesn’t touch alcohol, and that she is vegetarian, but that also might be simply because of the easily available ingredients. Her favourite colour is lavender and she seems to like the flowers you’ve planted on the front porch, too. She loves to read that one series about wizards from the break of the twenty-first century and despite not being a fan of fantasy all that much, you quickly join her in her little book club, slowly making your way through piles of literature, first from the centuries before you, to your favourites from your time, like “Pride and Prejudice”, to the ones from centuries you have not lived to see. It’s strange, in a way, to read about the reality in the future and take it as a hard fact instead of speculative fiction, but you soon learn to roll with the punches. You’ve yet to figure out some of the devices, like the ‘computer’ or the sensitive alchemic apparature, but you’re sure you’re going to get there someday.

The kettle whistles, and you prepare the pot with jasmine tea. You make sure to pour the boiling water carefully to not damage the porcelain, making sure to mutter the thermos formula. While you’re not fit to do magic, as Rose has decided after an… unfortunate accident, you can still do the little tricks and spells. You put the pot on a cherrywood tray and add two cups, as well as some honey. You carry it outside to the table on the front porch. You shiver a little when the cool air seeps through your nightgown and tickles your bare feet. Better get a jumper and some shoes. You go back inside, and ponder making the delicacy that Rose introduced you to, pancakes. They seem to be her favourite breakfast, and it’s not like you don’t enjoy the fluffy texture. You’ve almost forgotten what it was like to be only able to consume blood.

Inside, you pick up the black jumper Rose knitted for you and pull it over your head. That should do it. You look around for your shoes in the mess of the living room, careful not to step on any of the discarded knitting projects and dog-eared books on the thick carpet. You find them under the glass and cherry wood coffee table, hidden under a pile of papers that, upon inspection, you recognise to be a first draft of one of Rose’s writing projects. You feel yourself smile as you put the pages back in order, looking at the little notes in red pen Rose has made over the black print. You put the shoes on, and head over to the kitchen, loving how their small heels click on the hardwood floor.

You prepare the ingredients for the pancakes and quickly go over all the things on your to-do list for the day. The roses in the rear garden could you some fertiliser, you suppose, and you should pick the apples before they go overripe and start falling and rotting. You take out a big bowl and pour some flour in it. The severe contrasts between it and your hands still surprises you, seeing as they used to be the exact same shade. You add the rest of the dry ingredients and some cinnamon, then make a well in the middle before adding the eggs, oil and milk. You heat up a pan and put the butter in, the quiet sizzling causing your mouth to water. You pour the first portion of the batter onto the pan, and watch it solidify. The scent is due to lure a bedheaded Rose down soon enough.

As you flip the second pancake, the stairs creak and Rose, truthfully to your suspicions, creeps into the kitchen in a hoodie and some trousers, to which she refers as joggers. You smile instantly at her sight. And, in that exact moment, when she smiles back, looking up at you from her messy so-blond-that-almost-white fringe, you realise that you’re in love with her. You’re so dumb-struck by this realisation and the overwhelming urge to kiss her, you burn the pancake. She scrunches up her nose just a little, and she looks too beautiful in the morning sunlight, the reds, blue, greens and yellows from the stained glass dancing on her skin like flowers.

“Kanaya, I know that you like your pancakes crispy, but I think there’s a line between crispy and charcoal, and you’ve just crossed it.”

“Uh.” You burn bright red, and take the pancake down from the pan. It’s not burnt too badly you suppose you can always mask the bitterness with some of that raspberry jam the two of you have made lately. She laughs, and subtly shows you to step aside while she takes over the pan. You cough a little awkwardly, and take out two plates and the necessary cutlery.

“It seems that there’s something on your mind this morning.” She inquires, and you don’t know what to say back. You scramble to take out the jam from the 'fridge', and wait for her to elaborate. “Care to share?”

“I just realised something.” You stutter out. She probably knows, anyways. Maybe even longer than you have known, with her semi-omnipotence thing. There’s no point in hiding it. Even if she doesn’t feel the same way, she’ll understand. “I think I might be in love with you.”

She laughs, and you’re not sure what to do. For the first time since you’ve made the deal, you feel your stomach contract with anxiety, but when she looks at you over her shoulder, you only see adoration in her bright eyes. She flips the pancake, and walks up to you. She hooks her arms around your shoulders and looks up, into your eyes.

“I thought you’d never say that. God, I was starting to think I was projecting your… feelings for me simply because of the ones of my own. I’m so glad I was wrong.” Her voice is quiet, just barely above a whisper, and your breath goes short. “Come on, what are you waiting for? Kiss me.”

“Uh. Alright.” You stutter out, and lower your head. Her lips are soft, unbelievably soft, and you cannot believe you haven’t figured it all out earlier. You adjust your head a little bit, and she sighs gently. You put your hand on her cheek, still wary of scaring her away. She pulls away to peck your lips before going back to the stove and taking the pan off the fire. If you feel a bit disappointed, you don’t let it overwhelm you.

“I’d figured we’d still like to eat some pancakes that aren’t pure charcoal.” She says, and you can hear the smile in her voice. You smile at her, even though she cannot see it.

“I’d figure the same. Besides, it’s not like we haven’t got an eternity to be looking forward to.”


End file.
